


a different side of mine

by aerococonut



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1941, 5+1, Bodyswap, Choose your faces wisely, Crowley's Flat, Declaration of Love, England 1349 AD, Healing, Historical, M/M, Past to current timeline, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Rome 41 AD, The Arrangement, The Burning Bookshop, The bookshop, Trials, Wessex 537 AD, alternating pov, and oysters, featuring the restaurant, mostly show canon with some extras, now featuring the drunk crowley scene, soho 2019 AD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22448044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerococonut/pseuds/aerococonut
Summary: It goes without saying that angels and demonsshouldn'tbe swapping bodies, but sometimes it just...happens...What if 'choosing your faces wisely' simply meant repeating something you'd already done before?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 124





	1. Rome, 41 AD

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Found What I've Been Looking For by Tom Grennan.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDvX1hzGZN4)
> 
> 5+1 times Aziraphale and Crowley swapped bodies.
> 
> Story is finished, the last three chapters just need editing. I'll be posting roughly once a week I hope.

_ I keep searching _

_ But I can't seem to find _

_ What I'm wanting _

_ It's changing all the time _

_ And if you notice  _

_ A different side of mine _

_ Then I've found what I've been looking for _

_ Found what I've been looking for _

  
  


  1. **Rome, 41 AD**  
  




Crowley followed the angel into Petronius’ restaurant and grinned. 

Now this was his kind of place. He could  _ taste _ the potential for sin in the air, all ripe and swelling with promise, mingled with the scents of the dishes on the tables.

The stone archway he passed under led into an open room, dimly lit by candles. Groups of people clustered around low stone tables, lounging on the sloped couches and picking assorted delicacies off their plates with their fingers. A handful of slaves lingered around the guests, carrying bowls of water and cloth to wash their hands. Servers scurried around with  _ amphorae _ of water and wine, offering it to the patrons. The scent of grilling sausages, of honey and salt, and the tang of human bodies filled the room.

Crowley flicked his tongue out, letting those scent-tastes flavour his words. “Come on, angel. Choose us a table and let’s get started.” He gently placed a hand to Aziraphale’s back and nudged him forward. Already, his irritation was fading, the failure with Caligulus not seeming as bad with the angel’s presence. Aziraphale was an odd balm, to be sure. Demons shouldn’t spend time in the presence of fussy, food-loving angels, and yet here he was.

It should probably bother him, what with the potential for smiting and all that. From what Crowley had seen, Aziraphale wasn’t the smiting type. After all, the angel hadn’t done anything when they’d stood on the Gate of Eden, when Crowley had disrupted his charges and introduced original sin into the world. 

But nothing had happened, and Crowley had found himself  _ enjoying _ the company, bizarre though it was. Aziraphale’s blind faith and love of humanity, his enjoyment of simple human things. He was a far cry from the stuffy featherbrains lingering in Heaven. Maybe that’s why Crowley sought him out.

And yet, this was a different situation. It was the first time the angel had initiated conversation, bad though it had been. Endearing, at least. 

He followed Aziraphale to their chosen table, set in the corner of the restaurant and out of the prying eyes of the other patrons. Clever. Crowley slipped into the right side seat, his yellow snake’s eyes -- now hidden behind tiny tinted lenses-- flicked over the crowd before back to Aziraphale.

The angel settled primly onto the couch, arranging his toga in neat folds before lying on his side. He sniffed, blue eyes alight at the scents of the food. “It looks scrumptious,” he sighed, reaching over to grab an asparagus stick drizzled in olive oil.

“Why the sudden urge to eat?” Crowley drawled, signalling to a server for an  _ amphora _ of wine. Once the clag jug was in his hand, he held it up to the angel in salute. “Seems a little too  _ earthly _ for Heaven.” He tossed his head, missing the weight of his hair. He’d cropped the deep red waves short some time ago, in keeping with the current fashion. 

Aziraphale beamed, eyes bright. He sat up and leaned forward, fingers delicately plucking an oyster from the table and holding it up. “I was thinking about what you’d said earlier, in truth. About blending in, and enjoying what the humans had to offer. You told me I was too obvious, in how I acted. So, I have decided to learn.” He put the oyster to his lips and let the flesh slide down his throat.

Crowley watched him, unblinking eyes wide.  _ Did he...did he not know how that looked? _

“Would you like some?” Aziraphale must have noticed him looking, despite his lenses. “I promise they are quite good. Humans are so clever, in how they blend spices for new and exciting flavours. Do try one!” And he held an oyster out for Crowley.

He mustn't know what sharing oysters symbolised. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should inform the angel of why certain parties had gathered to enjoy the feast. Should he ruin that blissful ignorance? Proclaim oysters to be a mark of his side, a mark of sin, of delicious promises to be had in the dark?

Aziraphale waited, eyes shining. He seemed eager to share this little piece of human magic. 

Crowley took the oyster and slurped it up. “Salty,” he muttered, since Aziraphale was waiting for a response. There wasn't much too them overall. A little tang, sometimes covered in sauce, and then it was gone. Perhaps not his favourite of the humans' food.

You’d think it was a compliment, judging by the way Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Fresh from the sea! Now,” he rinsed his hands in the water bowl and waved to a server. “Let me get you something to drink as well. You were drinking something earlier that looked fine.”

Rolling his eyes, Crowley lounged back on the couch. “It was drinkable. Hardly the best thing I’ve tasted. Humans aren’t quite... _ there _ ...yet, when it comes to alcoholic beverages.” He stretched his legs out, wiggling his toes. In time, he hoped the humans would develop something a little tastier. They had the right idea, fermenting this stuff. The  _ posca _ was drinkable, if only because the spices mixed in killed the bland taste. 

An  _ amphora _ of wine was poured into two cups, one placed in front of him. He took a sip, grimacing. Yep. Not great. Still, it would do for now.

Next to him, Aziraphale somehow managed to look uptight and arranged, despite lying on the couch. He licked grape juice off his fingers, eyes fluttering closed.

He looked obscene, utterly delectable and so, so ripe for plucking. Crowley had to fight down the urge to suggest they go elsewhere, and try other human pursuits. He leaned over, draping an arm across the back of Aziraphale’s couch. “Angel. Relax a bit, would you? You look out of place.” He flicked a hand at the humans around them. Some of whom had started enjoying those other pursuits. “Unless you want to blend in?” He let the offer hang, knowing as he made it Aziraphale wouldn’t understand.

With his pristine robes, delicate gold thread glinting at the shoulders, and his soft blonde curls, pale skin, and overall aura of  _ good _ , it was a wonder the humans hadn’t realised what sat in their midst. Then again, they never noticed occult beings, his eyes aside. 

Aziraphale mumbled something, falling backwards against the couch, his head resting near Crowley’s arm.

Soft curls brushed his arm, sending tingles through his corporation. Interesting. Crowley waved his cup in front of Aziraphale’s face. “Speaking of human creativity, have you tried the wine? The effects are rather  _ magical _ , if you’re brave enough to try.”

The angel looked at him, something like nervousness crossing his face. “Oh no...I mean, I shouldn’t.” His back straightened a little, and his fingers dropped the bread he’d been holding. Preparing to flee?

Crowley didn’t want his guard back up again. That was counterproductive to tempting, even if he wasn’t on the clock so to speak. “Come on,” he wheedled, flicking his forked tongue across his lips. “One drink isn’t going to hurt. You like food, and humans. Why not try this?” And it wasn’t like this was the first time Aziraphale had accepted food from his hand.

It wasn’t every day an angel and a demon shared a meal, and yet they’d done it multiple times now. It was rather...pleasant...to spend time with his adversary. Despite their differences. Their conversations had been amusing from the first. What other angel would give away their flaming sword? That one act of sheer  _ kindness _ had shocked him to his demonic core.

Here was an angel that didn’t fit the mould, he’d thought at the time. A hypothesis backed up by further research and compounded when they’d eaten together.

“Fine. I will try it.” Aziraphale finally succumbed, taking a tentative sip of the wine. He grimaced, nose scrunching adorably.

“It’s an acquired taste.” Crowley smirked to himself, modulating his voice to be smooth and reasonable. “The more you drink, the better it’ll taste,” he tempted, swishing his own around so the scent of it hit the angel. There was a small thrill in tempting an angel, even for simple things like food and drink. He doubted it would go anywhere, but the contemplation of it amused him.

Aziraphale studied the wine, idly swirling it around his cup.

There was something bizarrely elegant about the motion, Crowley thought to himself. Something about that image, of a soft hand and bared wrist on a cup that called to him. He’d have to remember this scene, tuck it away into his memory. “You’ll see,” he promised, holding his own cup up and clinking it against the angel’s.

_ … … ... _

Many cups of wine later, Aziraphale was giggling, his cheeks flushed. “You...you’re right.” He slid down the couch. “This taste...hmm...good.” He said the words slowly, like he had to think about them.

It was the most disheveled Crowley had ever seen the angel. 

Crowley wasn’t doing much better, if he was honest. He’d tried to stay sober in order to watch, but Aziraphale had looked so  _ happy _ to see him drinking that he’d kept going. “Sssssee? Told you.” His fingers slipped, almost dropping his current cup. “You like it…?”

Nodding along, Aziraphale finished his cup, wine droplets dripping down his lips. His eyes sparkled, brilliant against his reddened cheeks.

_ Oh, _ Crowley thought, staring at him. Aziraphale was  _ beautiful _ . Not just in the usual angelic way, but in a strangely human way. With his guard down and his radiant smiles directed at Crowley, he felt  _ warm _ inside. Something tugged in his chest, like a loose thread had tied itself into place, and that place was Aziraphale. It should probably worry him, this sudden sense of the angel, yet his mind was fogged by lackluster wine and warm smiles. “Hey angel,” he slurred, leaning closer. “You’re... _ you. _ Good. I like it.” He reached over, resting his fingertips against the angel’s hand.

Aziraphale snorted --actually snorted-- and laughed in his face, warm breath washing over Crowley’s face. “Angel. Course I’m  _ good _ .” His gaze flicked down to Crowley’s hand, but he didn’t move away. His expression grew thoughtful. “Not so bad, either,” he mused. “You, I mean. Quite good, when you think about it--”

Crowley hissed, digging his nails a little into the hand beneath his. “I’ll sssshow you  _ good _ .” It rankled, the knowledge he wasn’t the same as the other demons. Wasn’t as  _ demonic _ at heart.

Aided by the warm haze of alcohol in his system, his blood humming in his veins, he cast himself out towards the angel. The part of him that had noted the  _ connection _ sprung to life, following the piece of the angel he carried back to the source. He let his essence mingle, spreading and merging a little until he wasn’t entirely tethered to his corporation. Then, he brushed against Aziraphale.

It was an invasion, a scrape of black claws down something holy; something demons should avoid like the plague. And yet, his sense of Aziraphale felt only warmth, an invitation to taste the radiance he felt there. The spirit, the  _ light _ of Aziraphale thrummed in his being, vibrating on another plane of existence. Crowley pushed against that sense, and surprisingly it yielded beneath him.

He could taste Aziraphale’s curiosity, his confusion at what Crowley was doing. The angel pushed back, in defense. No, not defense, in  _ meeting _ . Aziraphale met him halfway, his angelic aura spread out around him like his luminous wings.

Crowley’s downfall had always been a need to know. He let himself drift forward, flowing into the angel and tasting divinity. He had no comprehension of how long he hung there, suspended in a brilliant storm of emotion. He felt everything Aziraphale was: faithful, questioning. Soft and good and caring, and overwhelming  _ love _ . 

He couldn’t stay there for long, his self threatening to tear apart under the weight of these emotions. So he gathered the pieces of himself and slithered his way into a corporation.

“Well. That was interesting,” he drawled. The voice wasn’t his, too low and smooth, the words clipped. It was familiar, however. Crowley drew in an unneeded breath, noting the difference in his weight, in his gravity. Something was off. He sobered himself up --a trick he’d taught himself recently-- and looked up to face what he suspected.

The face he looked into was his own, seen through watery reflections, polished jewellery, and his own tinted lenses. Seeing it this way, through the eyes of another, was astounding. His usual corporation was sharp, all sharp cheekbones, pointed chin, strong nose. Cropped auburn hair tucked under a golden circlet. Long, thin fingers twisted themselves together, the black toga he wore drooping over his thin shoulders, red thread catching the light.

Crowley blinked past his burning eyes. Huh. His corporation was...rather appealing, if he thought about it. Though those lenses barely hid those serpent eyes. Maybe a wider frame? He’d have to look into that.

“So…” Crowley trailed off, unsure of where to leave his gaze. He had to keep blinking, and his gaze bounced between the angel-in-demon-form and his own, now pleasantly gentle countenance. “This is…” How did he formulate this situation into words?

Aziraphale stood up in a fluid motion and slammed his hands on the table, face twisted. “What have you done?” he screeched, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Behind his lenses, golden eyes shot him a piercing stare.

Crowley threw out a hasty miracle, surrounding them with a bubble of silence and convincing the other patrons to look away. “Angel, hey… settle down.”

“I won’t!” Standing up, Aziraphale leaned forward and hissed, “This is a missstake! A dissssassster!” In Crowley’s form, he couldn’t stop his voice catching on the  _ s _ sounds. He bared sharp teeth, long hands digging into the table. “You demon! Was this part of your plan all along?” He drew back a hand, as if to strike.

Crowley hurriedly raised his hands, palms out. “No, no! Angel -- Aziraphale, listen! I didn’t plan this! I don’t even know what I did, really!” The words spilled out of him, tripping over his tongue in his haste to make Aziraphale understand. “Look! I’m not doing anything, see?” He lowered his voice, using the modulated tone to soothe the angel’s ruffled feathers, though his body was on edge, adrenaline kicking in and warning him to  _ run _ .

Aziraphale watched him, breathing heavily. He still stood there, poised to strike.

“I’m sitting here, same as you. Or as you were.” He smiled and gestured to the couch Aziraphale had abruptly left. “Sit down and let’s talk this out,” he offered, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Was this the end of...whatever this was? A seed of a friendship, wilted and burned before it could ever sprout?

Finally, the tension bled from Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he dropped back onto the couch.

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, feeling himself relax in return. “Right then.” Now that the danger had passed, he could take in the new sensations channeled by this body.

He didn’t have his usual way of tasting the air, and he couldn’t sense the weight of sin, yet he wasn’t lacking. Aziraphale’s corporation sensed things in a different way; the purity in the air like a tingling across his skin, or the warmth of human compassion like a blanket across the shoulders. He knew that the couple in the corner would love each other for their whole lives, for example. 

Flashes of love were everywhere, now that he had the sense to look. No wonder Aziraphale always extolled the virtue of love. Crowley almost wouldn’t mind lingering in this state, absorbing the emotion he could feel.

It was different, and yet not so bad. He hadn’t realised he’d voiced the thought aloud.

Aziraphale huffed, fiddling with his black toga. “For you, perhaps! You’re a demon! I’m an angel!” His fingers curled into the fabric. “What if we can’t change back? I’ll be stuck this way! How could I ever face Heaven again?” Panic was rising in his voice, his hands fretting at themselves and his eyes wide.

Crowley bit down the urge to snap at him.  _ Really.  _ As if it was so bad being a demon. Sure, the pay was nonexistent and came with threats of violent dismemberment, but that was to be expected. 

What he didn’t want though, was to lose Aziraphale’s company. “Aziraphale. Trust me. It’ll be fine.” He held out a hand, willing Aziraphale to calm down and grab it. “We do what we did before. It’ll be easy.” He barely understood what he’d done to get them in this mess.

Aziraphale watched his face, judging his words and chewing his bottom lip, until his expression cleared. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Shall we try?”

Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s hand, plastering what he hoped was a reassuring smile on his face. He was in an angel’s body, shouldn’t it come with the territory?

Part of him wanted to push, to see where the boundaries lay and how long he could press until they broke. Always his downfall, the need to know.

Think what they could accomplish, pretending to be each other! Crowley, wearing Aziraphale’s form, could use that aura of trustworthiness to walk into the senatorial meetings and they’d throw themselves at his feet. He’d known instinctively, using Aziraphale’s senses, which connections were genuine. None of this mess with Caligulus, no possibility of failure.

And yet, the thought didn’t fill him with as much glee when he saw how nervous Aziraphale looked, his lips worried and bitten and his hand twitching in Crowley’s. Wanting it to be fixed and blindly trusting a demon to make it happen.

With a sigh, Crowley cast himself out once more. “Reach for me,” he instructed. “For my essence. Just like last time, only feel for your own corporation. It should feel like home. We’ll meet in the middle.”

It was easier this time, to wrangle his sense of self towards the body he usually wore. A homing beacon, perhaps, in case his blackened, twisted soul got lost. He could feel the middle point, where their essences threatened to blur and fade into one another, combining to form something new. One day they might explore that further…

Crowley brushed past what he could sense of Aziraphale, of the angel’s warmth and light and love, and he  _ sidestepped _ , sliding past to where his serpent-eyed corporation lay.

When he opened his eyes, --Aziraphale must have shut them during the process-- he saw into crystalline blue once more. “See?” he croaked, rolling his shoulders. Returning to his body was like putting on a favourite piece of clothing, worn in by use and perfectly fitting. “Nothing to it.” He brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his toga and slouched back on the couch.

Would there be any after effects of their little swap? Crowley turned his attention inwards, studying the pieces of himself. A brief inspection showed nothing untoward. No urges to fall to his knees and beg redemption, no need to run around saving people or performing blessings. No side effects whatsoever, as far as he could tell.

Hmm. Did Heaven and Hell know this was possible? Would they ever have had a chance to find out? If not for the way he and Aziraphale were less antagonistic towards each other, maybe Crowley never would have either. Food for thought.

Aziraphale picked up his cup, hands shaking slightly. “Easy for you to say.” He scowled into his cup. “That was...bizarre!”

Crowley bit his lip, and then the question blurted out. “Was it so bad?” Curse his need to know.

Aziraphale waved a hand, as if to brush off the question, but paused. “You know…” he said slowly, the wheels in his mind turning as he considered it. “I think not,” he admitted. “I suppose I could say it was information gathering,” he argued with himself, following his train of thought, “should anyone ask. I was merely figuring out how better to thwart you. After all, this was your idea,” he finished, sitting up primly.

“Nobody has to know.” Crowley didn’t  _ want _ anyone else to know. What they’d done… it was  _ private _ , and just between them. He wanted to preserve this, the sensation of Aziraphale he could still faintly feel. “Besides, our respective sides won’t like it if their agents start swapping.” There, appeal to the angel’s sense of duty. Or maybe morality was the better word.

‘You’re right.” Aziraphale stared at his drink, before reaching for the  _ amphora _ and pouring another cup for both of them. “Now, I believe we were enjoying this wine of yours. Shall we continue?”  _ And leave this ‘experiment’ behind us _ , went unspoken.

Crowley perked up at that. Wine, the ultimate temptation aid. Part of him couldn’t help picking up the pieces of his temptation, smirking and clinking their cups together. “Like that, did you angel?” He couldn’t push any further without risking alienating Aziraphale too far.

He realised he  _ liked _ spending time with Aziraphale. The angel was like a puzzle, one his thoughts kept returning to in an effort to solve. Enjoyable. 

Like a truth finally uncovered, Crowley knew their paths were linked forever now. He needed to be closer to Aziraphale, to learn the truth of him.

_ I want to know you. _


	2. The Kingdom of Wessex, 537 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damned demons undoing all his hard work. Sure wish...there was...an easier solution...

  1. **The Kingdom of** **Wessex, 537 AD**  
  




_ “It’d be easier if we both stayed home.” _

The words bounced around Aziraphale’s mind, echoing and expanding the more he thought about it. He could see the merit in the concept, the kernel of truth contained within, and he hated it. Hated that it made sense; that the concept had somehow insinuated itself into his being and stuck there.

_ Wretched demon… _ Aziraphale could easily picture it: ditching his warm, fur-lined cloak and retreating somewhere that wasn’t Wessex. While the cold wasn’t overwhelming for him, he could imagine the demon was suffering. Wessex’s air was cold and damp, sinking into the bones and slowly sapping the life away, rotting lungs from the inside out. The mist hung thick in the air, obscuring all manners of dangers and black knights.

Throughout their...acquaintanceship…Crowley had never liked the cold. Maybe it was his former form’s deep-seated need for heat, or maybe it was Hell’s chains dragging him through the pits of sulfuric fire.

Aziraphale could feel himself frown, his expression growing pinched. And again, his thoughts had somehow centred back onto the demon. Crowley had begun taking more space in his mind of late. His comments, his  _ energy _ . He tempted; it was his job, that’s what he was made to do. But he also made  _ sense _ . 

What’s he’d suggested was ludicrous. An angel and a demon, swapping jobs? Ridiculous. How would they go about it? Wouldn’t Heaven and Hell find out? 

It was foolish to consider it, yet the idea contained the seeds of promise. Aziraphale let himself follow the thought to its conclusion, circling the now well-worn track. Say he and Crowley agreed to split their duties. He, an angel, would be performing demonic interventions. Crowley, a demon, would be performing  _ divine miracles _ on his behalf. 

However, Aziraphale had been somewhat put out to find Crowley had been casually undoing all his hard work here.

That irritated him the most. Here he’d been sending positive reviews to Heaven, reporting his successes with the meetings and the general aura of peace he’d begun cultivating, only to find it was all an illusion.

A small, mistrusting part of him wondered if Crowley had done this deliberately. The serpent’s usual propensity for mischief tended to general upsets though. Nothing that suggested he’d specifically designed the situation to tempt Aziraphale into a partnership.

Which led him back to the problem: since Crowley had appeared genuine, should he accept the offer of aid?

Aziraphale wrung his hands, staring unseeing at the walls of his white tent. The plain cloth stayed miraculously pristine, mostly because Aziraphale didn’t want it dirty. It saved time he could better spend reading.

There would be more time for reading if he wasn’t traipsing to other locations...

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Aziraphale strode to the small writing desk tucked in the corner of his tent and picked up a scroll. Perhaps if he focused on his reading, his thoughts would quiet at last. Slipping onto his stool, he drew his cloak around him and began to read.

Reading, as it always did, pulled him into a world of words and wills. He wasn’t aware of time passing, of the sky outside darkening, and so it came as a complete surprise when a quiet voice interrupted.

“Can I come in?” The voice, low and sibilant, could only belong to one demon.

Aziraphale put down his scroll and frowned in the direction of the tent flap. Had it only been three days since he’d seen Crowley last? His thoughts had worried at the problem non stop since then, weighing the pros and cons, the truth of the demon’s words versus the likely outcome if they pursued it.

Was Crowley here to demand an answer?

With a sigh, Aziraphale brushed a hand down the front of his undyed tunic and called out, “Very well.” He watched the entrance, waiting.

Crowley slunk in, shoulders hunched and gaze flitting around the small tent. 

Without the heavy plate armour, Crowley looked smaller. His tunic was black of course, long-sleeved and gathered at the waist with a plain belt. The cloak he wore was thick, the fur a dark brown --some sort of bear, perhaps?-- and gathered with a snake brooch at the front. His leggings were woolen; oddly baggy from the excess fabric rolled in the stomach and ankles, half-covering the leather shoes Crowley had strapped to his feet. The overall effect was more subdued than Crowley normally looked.

Poor thing, he really didn’t do well in cold weather. 

Crowley hovered opposite Aziraphale for a moment, and then dropped himself onto a stool. It hadn’t been there previously, but it was now. “Brought you this,” he coughed, holding out a scroll bound with red ribbon. 

Was this...an apology, of sorts? Aziraphale took the scroll, carefully undoing the ribbon and skimming over the words inside. A proclamation, ordering a knight to defend a bridge. It was an everyday sort of scroll, nothing truly of import, and yet it was beautiful in its own way. Aziraphale would keep it as a memory, safeguarding the now for the future. In time, when all this had faded, he would have something to show for it. “Thank you, dear fellow.” He rolled the scroll back up and secured it, tucking it away into his writing chest. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Crowley flicked out his tongue, his head turning side to side. His voice was subdued when he answered. “Figured writing was your thing.” With a shrug, he flicked a glance at Aziraphale. Without his helm, his unblinking yellow eyes were wide, nervous. “I saw it, took it. One more for your collection, anyway.” He sprawled as best he could on the stool, attempting to appear cool and collected.

Aziraphale hid a smirk. Ah. So this was an apology of sorts. Crowley was like that, he’d noticed. Quick to his outbursts, and then would come back, apologize and beg for attention. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to say things outright, preferring to hint and tempt and lead others into it.

Which meant Aziraphale had to demand answers, and that bothered him sometimes. Why couldn’t Crowley just accept things, without needing to add layers of meaning or confuse the issue? He forced himself to stop gritting his teeth and held up the scroll. “Thank you then. I will keep it safe, with the others.”

Crowley lifted a shoulder and slouched down further.

The demon also didn’t like being thanked. Aziraphale cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I have been thinking,” he said, lacing his hands together in his lap. “About your...proposal.”

That got Crowley’s attention. He whipped around to face Aziraphale. “What?” He stared in disbelief.

“Your insinuations about aiding one another.”  _ Aid _ might be too strong a word for what Crowley had originally suggested, but Aziraphale was going to ram the point home. This idea would fail if both parties didn’t truly understand what would happen. Rules, they needed rules. Strict, unyielding. That would protect them both. “Your help with blessings. My help with your temptations.” He raised his brows at Crowley.

Crowley sat bolt upright. “Are you...are you actually considering it?” His mouth fell open, his eyes now fully focused on Aziraphale.

The intensity in his gaze caused a flush to rise to Aziraphale’s cheeks. “You have some good points,” he mumbled, toying with his fingers. “Though...I have my doubts.”

Crowley was a demon. He was, by definition, untrustworthy. Just because they’d shared meals and conversation over the millenia didn’t mean Crowley wasn’t plotting dastardly things. Granted, he’d never  _ harmed _ Aziraphale, but that didn’t automatically free him from his Hell-given job. Even if Crowley was rather...uninspired… in his words and deeds serving Hell. 

“Of course you do,” Crowley muttered, rolling his snake’s eyes.

Aziraphale drew himself up. “Well, you’re a demon! How do I know you aren’t going to deliberately mess up my blessings to get me in trouble with Heaven?”

Crowley sneered at that, tossing back his red hair. It was longer now, falling around his shoulders and framing his thin face. “What about some...insurance, then?” he purred, one long leg rising to drape over the other.

“Insurance?” Aziraphale scowled, not liking the sound of that. “How would you insure a concept like this?” If anything, he was interested to know how Crowley would approach it. The demon was nothing if not oddly creative for his kind, finding unusual ways to accomplish his tasks.

“Well…” Crowley drawled, leaning forward. “You’re worried about Head Office discovering you doing temptations, right? Worried about dirtying your pretty white wings?”

Aziraphale huffed, resentment blooming in his stomach. “I am an angel, Crowley. I should not even be consorting with the likes of you.” He ignored the small flinch on Crowley’s face, the shuttering of his eyes. Guilt replaced the resentment, spiking his insides. He cleared his throat. “Go on. Insurance, you were saying?”

Crowley grimaced, gathering his thoughts. His voice was hesitant when he continued. “What if we...traded corporations for a while?” He spoke the phrase slowly, yellow eyes watching Aziraphale closely. “Just long enough to do each other’s tasks.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, trying to sort the information. Examined each piece, turning it over for hidden meanings. “Goodness,” he murmured, folding his hands in his lap to buy time. His mind explored the possibilities. 

If he was wearing  _ Crowley’s  _ form, it would simply read as the demon completing his usual tasks. The inverse was also true; Crowley would do a blessing as Aziraphale, and Head Office would see it as his corporation doing his job.

Even so, Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether he could trust Crowley with this. “Why would I entrust my corporation to a demon?” What sort of terrible things would Crowley do, if he had the opportunity? What sins would he perform?

And would it even matter, if Aziraphale’s essence was tucked away somewhere else?

“We’ve done it before.” Crowley continued to watch him, his voice carefully neutral. He kept his hands in plain sight, fighting down his usual fidgeting. “You’d be in my corporation. It’d be a fair trade,” he offered with a weak smile, running a hand through his hair. “If I did something...bad...to yours, you could do something to mine. Insurance, like I said.”

Was he truly suggesting this as a matter of course, with no ulterior motions? Aziraphale wasn’t the type to smite recklessly. Even if he was in Crowley’s body, he likely wouldn’t harm it. Crowley had probably guessed that long ago, when he’d watched Aziraphale help the humans. “What are you planning?” Maybe the demon would give him a straight answer for once.

Crowley sighed, brushing dirt off his traveling cloak. “I guess it depends on what blessing you want me to do.” He lifted his gaze to the roof of the tent, peaked to allow the rain and damp to drip off the sides. “What’s on your to-do list currently?”

“You would let me pick?” Aziraphale squinted at him, waiting for the deception. Surely, somewhere, there must be a promise of reciprocation. Would Crowley offer something for no gain? No, there must be a loophole somewhere. “That would put you at a disadvantage, would it not?” He watched for evidence of lying, not even sure he could tell at this point.

“It would hardly benefit me to suggest this, and then turn around and sabotage it, now would it?” Crowley said in exasperation.

He had a point.

Aziraphale debated with himself, mentally doing a tally of current tasks and the likelihood of Crowley causing problems. There was one task...a minor miracle, nothing too difficult really. Just a small blessing on a child, a little bit of magic that would set him on a certain path.

“What are you thinking?” Crowley shifted position, leaning closer.

He must have taken too long to answer. “There is...a child,” he began, slowly planning it out in his mind. 

Crowley motioned for him to go on. 

“You would need to join the household. The child must be brought to the orchard. When he says the words, the tree will burst into bloom.” He looked at Crowley, brows raised. Obviously that was where the miracle kicked in. 

Aziraphale continued to watch the demon, eyes travelling the planes of his sharp face. If he went through with this, there was no turning back. He sat here, poised on the brink of change. What if Heaven and Hell found out? Could he Fall from this?

Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, forked tongue licking over dry lips, Crowley waited with bated breath.

There was a frisson in the air; like the air before the weather turned. As if the very earth was holding its breath.

Aziraphale made his choice. If he didn’t follow this through, he would never know what he --what they-- were truly capable of. “You shall be performing it under the bright sun, in full view of the household.” He sat straight-backed, noting every change in Crowley’s expression.

Crowley, for the most part, was staring in disbelief. 

“This will be my...test, if you will,” Aziraphale continued, primly adjusting his tunic. The gold thread picked out a pattern of feathers, only showing when Aziraphale’s cloak shifted to allow the light in. “To see if your little...Arrangement...has merit.”

A wide, pleased smile broke across Crowley’s face. “I like the sound of that,” he said, a little breathlessly. Confusion? Or perhaps he never thought Aziraphale would agree? “The Arrangement.” He repeated the words slowly, drawing it out like he was savouring the phrase.

_ “If,” _ and here Aziraphale stressed the word, “if you succeed with this task, I will consider agreeing to this arrangement of yours.”

“Wait.” Crowley squinted. “You’re  _ not _ agreeing?”

Aziraphale let his smile show some teeth. “We will see how you go performing a blessing. After all, if we are to work together, I need to be sure you can do it. It would not do to agree, only to have you melt or be smited for crossing sides, hmm?” He flashed Crowley a beatific smile and waved a hand over his desk. “Would you like it in writing?”

Crowley swallowed, his throat bobbing. His hands clenched and unclenched on the table until he forced them to stillness. “N-nah,” he said finally, voice higher than normal.

Had he not thought about the possible outcomes? Aziraphale brushed imaginary dust off his scrolls and leaned back. If something happened to Crowley, at least his curiosity would be sated.

He ignored the pang of loneliness that went through him at the thought of losing the one constant being in his existence.

Shaking his head, Crowley got to his feet and stretched, his lanky limbs brushed the top of the tent. “We can shake on the Arrangement,” he winked at the term, “after I finish this blessing for you. Make it official. We can go for drinks afterwards.” 

That did sound nice.

“Is there a time limit? Or should I just come find you when you’re done?” Crowley shifted his weight. “We’ll have to find time to meet up more often. To share information, I mean,” he said quickly.

Aziraphale waved a hand. “Finish it by the full moon. You have plenty of time.” He smiled sweetly. “We can organise particulars once you return. It would not do to get ahead of yourself, after all.”

Crowley raised a brow at that.

Picking up his abandoned scroll, Aziraphale settled down to read once more. “Now. Off you go!” It wouldn’t do to have a demon lingering too long. Who knew when Heaven was watching?

Crowley plucked the book out of his hand. “Forgetting something?” His face was suddenly far closer than expected. The low lantern light glinted off his golden eyes.

Him? Forget something? Nonsense. “My dear boy-- oh.” Right. 

Crowley had wanted to trade corporations. 

He inhaled, feeling the weight of Crowley’s gaze judging him. It was one thing for Crowley to take the potential fallout, and another to be doing it as Aziraphale. Those snake eyes waited for him to back down, to take the coward’s path.

Aziraphale drew himself up, anger bubbling up. He’d already agreed to the blessing! He was an angel of his word and he refused to back down now. “Very well. You may borrow my corporation.” He wasn’t sure how to go about that, his memories of that one instance blurred, softened by time and distance.

Crowley invaded his space again, sticking out a hand. “I’ll treat it as my own,” he promised, voice low. “I’ll even buy you a drink when I give it back. As payment.”

A demon, offering to pay?

Aziraphale sighed and took his hand. The long fingers clasped his, warmed by the temperature in the tent. “How do we do this?” He tried to remember how it felt to see through another’s eyes. 

That long ago time in Rome is hard to grasp. The alcohol had made it easy. Now, Aziraphale was faced with the deliberate intent to do so. He held out a hand, nervous energy fizzing in his blood. Was this a bad idea?

Crowley took his hand and grinned, and his eyes fell closed. 

Soon, Aziraphale felt the brush of Crowley’s essence against his, like a knock at the door.  _ Let me in?  _

He loosened his hold on his corporation, drawing his mind into itself and slipping upwards. It was the best way to explain it to himself, the process of his soul detaching from his body and clearing the way for the swap. 

It was easier than he thought it would be, sending his sense of self down the bridge their hands made, filling Crowley’s form with himself. He slid into all the hard edges, the lanky limbs and contained energy, and breathed. Opening his eyes brought his own, startled face into view. When he opened his mouth to speak, he could taste the air.

“I thought it would be harder,” Crowley mused, in Aziraphale’s voice. He shook his head, blonde curls bouncing, before stretching his arms above his head. “Ahh...it’s nice to be warm,” he mumbled, giving Aziraphale a somewhat shy look.

Aziraphale looked down, turning his attention to the corporation he now wore. The chill of the air sank in, even under his thick cloak and the warmth of his tent. Poor Crowley, he thought, and then beat the thought down. It didn’t do well to feel pity for demons.

Even if they were cold and miserable.

Shaking himself, Aziraphale adjusted the pull of his tunic and glanced at Crowley across the table. “Now we should…” He trailed off, noting a pulse of something somewhere in his chest. It was faint, like a thread linking him to...himself? Meeting Crowley’s blue-eyed gaze, he lifted his brows. “Crowley? Something you wished to share?”

Crowley flinched, guilt flickering across his face. “Well I...I use it to track you. Just in case, you know?” He quickly raised his hands, palms out. “Nothing bad, I swear! Keeping an eye out for trouble, as it were.”

Aziraphale kept his brow raised. 

“I got so used to searching for your particular angelic signature that my power kind of...automatically locked onto you.” Crowley fiddled with the fur-lined cloak, pulling it tighter around himself and hunching his shoulders.

He wanted to lash out, demand the demon get rid of it. A tether? Something that bound them together? Impossible. It faded in significance compared to the fact he was wearing a demon’s form and debating the merits of performing temptations in his name. 

Even so, it wouldn’t do for Crowley to become complacent. Aziraphale let his mouth turn to a scowl, fixing what he knew to be a fierce yellow gaze on him.

Crowley winced, biting his lip. “Should I go now?” 

“First,” Aziraphale raised a hand. “Be sure to record your task.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “How successful you were, how long it took, whether there was any opposition. We should also arrange a place to meet, as it is unlikely I will stay here.” A smirk crossed his face. “You did think this through entirely yes? We will have to plan out your concept in its entirety if it is to become a reality.”

“I planned this,” Crowley insisted, though his nervous twitching gave him away. “I’ll give you all the information, of course! After I’m done with your blessing, that is.”

Aziraphale stopped himself rolling his eyes by force of will. “Then get to it,” he said dismissively, flapping a hand in Crowley’s direction.

Crowley was already halfway to the tent flap when he stopped. “But I’m you.” He frowned. “Shouldn’t you be the one leaving?” 

There was a pregnant moment, before Aziraphale was forced to concede the point. “Fine,” he sighed, getting to his feet. He’d have to leave his scrolls here, thus ruining his reading time. 

“This is going to take some getting used to,” Crowley said, watching him move.

“For both of us.” He stood at the tent flap and looked back to Crowley. “Do not delay too long.” He clicked his tongue. “The sooner you finish my blessing, the sooner we can swap back.” 

Crowley settled down onto the stool, one finger trailing along the scroll in front of him. “See you soon, angel.”

Aziraphale stopped, tilting his head. Crowley’s tone had been...almost  _ fond _ . The way he’d said  _ angel _ was less ‘mortal enemies’ and more something...like a friend.

“Good luck,” he murmured to the demon. The most peculiar thing was how much he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Thank you to the two people who left comments on chapter 1, I appreciate you taking the time to say something. Hopefully this chapter piques a little more interest. : )


	3. England, 1349 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning, features the Black Death plague and may be uncomfortable for some reasons. I don't go into any real detail, but better to be safe if you aren't sure.

  1. **England, 1349 AD**



The fourteenth century was miserable. 

Crowley hated it, hated everything that had already happened, and likely still would. They weren’t even halfway through it, and he was done with it all.

Pestilence was in fine form, spreading pain and misery on a too-large scale. The sickness consumed all in its path, infecting multiple countries and tolling the dead until it reached England. Now it ran rampant, all of Europe in the ravages of Pestilence’s grasp.

Crowley was sick of it all. What was the point of being here, again? The taverns were closed. Hygiene was non-existent. The stench of death filled the air, and indeed he’d caught a glimpse of endless-dark wings when he’d first entered England. Death was everywhere.

If he was smart, Crowley would turn around and book it back to the nearest warm, safe location and take a nap until the world went back to rights.

Instead he was here, picking his way through a corpse-littered street in search of an angel. He knew Aziraphale was here. Could feel it, in the strange essence-bond situated somewhere inside his corporation. If he looked inside, he could feel the bond, like a piece of string tying him and Aziraphale together. Like a homing beacon; warming, comforting,  _ safe _ .

He should probably be concerned by that.

It had happened gradually, this development. He’d gone from vaguely sensing which continent Aziraphale was on, to locating him down to the town, to receiving flashes of emotion that weren’t his own. Stressing, how much attention he paid to the angel now. 

And yet, when the distress had vibrated down their connection, he’d dropped everything and made his way to this plague-torn town.

He could tell Aziraphale was upset, and honestly Crowley couldn’t blame him. The whole place stank. He’d skirted the nearest plague pit, noting the number of bodies with distaste. Thank G--  _ Somebody _ he couldn’t get sick.

Casting his senses out, Crowley went looking for the angel’s signature. Of all the places he could be, Aziraphale had to be here, where all the damage was. Doing his best to help and dealing with the crushing disappointment when he couldn’t save them all.

He flicked his tongue out, reluctant to taste the air with so much disease nearby. But he did, and caught a trace of the angel’s scent. Following it led him to a small church. He rolled his eyes. Of course it was a church. Where else would Aziraphale be?

Skulking towards it, he realised it was a tiny thing, barely more than a room with four walls. The stone bricks were cold, austere, and the cobblestones he trod were cracked and chipped from wear. He hesitated at the front doors, solid wood paneling thrown open to accommodate those seeking salvation.

Not being a fan of churches, Crowley tentatively stepped inside. There was no residual holy energy, nothing to say the ground had been consecrated. Nothing burned him, no warning of  _ begone, foul fiend. _

Inside, it was as he thought. One room, with the floor cleared and pallets lining the floor as far as he could see. The pews that would normally sit in rows were gone, pushed back to the edges of the room and covered in buckets and cloth. A couple of lanterns filled the church with weak yellow lighting, barely illuminating the room. Perhaps that was a mercy, since every pallet was full; the dying groaning or whimpering pitifully, silence from those who’d slipped away.

He spotted Aziraphale immediately. Clad in a simple priest’s white robes, the angel was kneeling beside a patient, a bucket of clean water next to him. As he watched, Aziraphale dunked the cloth back into miraculously clean water and wiped gently at the skin of his patient, careful to avoid the boils leaking pus.

_ Of course he was _ . Sniffing the air, Crowley felt for the lingering traces of miracles and found none. Now that was odd. Why wouldn’t Aziraphale use his powers to heal them?

Probably more of Heaven’s bureaucratic nonsense; something about limited miracles, or putting the fear of God into the mortals. After all, wasn’t now when they prayed the most? Begging a higher authority to help? 

He saw little evidence of help here. 

Only Aziraphale, tirelessly offering what comfort he could.

“Hey.” He almost said  _ hey angel _ , biting off the second word at the last moment. Wouldn’t do to announce that fact here, in this forsaken church. He shuffled his weight and looked down at his enemy/sometimes companion.

Aziraphale looked up, blue sky-eyes dull with the weight of his grief. “Crowley.” He made to lift his hand, aborting the gesture halfway through. “What are you doing here.” There was no enthusiasm to his tone. He continued his repetitive motions, wiping away the blood and pus from the patient and rinsing out the cloth.

It was Egypt again, the aftermath of plague threatening to drag Aziraphale down beyond saving. He’d been inconsolable, on the verge of Falling himself last time.

Crowley vowed privately he’d prevent it from happening. Why he’d bother, he shied away from answering. “This century is already miserable,” he announced instead, slinking across to kneel next to Aziraphale. “And then I heard about the widespread Pestilence. Came to find you and see if you needed help.” He’d been tempted to just curl up somewhere and sleep, except Hell had viewed “his actions” with high favour, giving him leeway to wander off. Or at least, that’s what he’d told them. They wouldn’t be impressed if they knew he was offering to help the Opposition.

Aziraphale tilted his head towards the bodies; those weakly coughing their life away, boils oozing from their skin, those who had already passed on, gathered in the corner or shifted away from those who desperately clung to this world. “What can you do?” His voice was broken, his shoulders slumped and weariness etched into the fine lines around his eyes.

What  _ could  _ he do? Crowley looked around and saw only pain and suffering. Britain was suffering. The whole country had lost hope, and it hurt to see. What could one demon do against that? 

He watched the people, lying there and hoping,  _ praying _ , they might live out the night.

He watched Aziraphale tending his patient, infinitely gentle and trying his best to believe, and something wrenched inside him. 

In a way, the angel  _ was _ Britain. Had become of this place, an outcome of the time spent here. Weaving his very soul into the pieces of the land. With every twist of a cloth bandage, every delighted bite of food, every person who brushed against his aura and became a part of him. 

Here, now, Crowley  _ knew _ , in a way without words, that Aziraphale would stay here. This country had become his calling; a place of simplicity and elegance, of death and destruction with a brilliant, optimistic future. Aziraphale  _ cared _ , and so he would do what he could to protect. To guard. 

Always, forever, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, spreading his wings to shelter all creatures, great and small.

Crowley felt very small then, in the face of such  _ faith _ . He’d lost his, long ago. “Angel,” he said quietly, voice thick in his throat. Aziraphale had burned everything he had. He was helping with nothing but his hands because he had nothing left to give. Crowley could fix that. “Swap with me.”

“What.” Aziraphale sighed, defeated. “Crowley. I don’t...I don’t have the energy for games.” Mechanically, his hands brushed back limp hair, the damp cloth sponging yet another boil-covered brow. Completely normal, if one ignored the faintest trace of divine magic in the temperature of the water, in the way clothes were just a little cleaner in his presence. The remaining dregs of Aziraphale’s magic.

“Not a game.” Crowley knelt, holding out his hand. “Swap with me. I’ve got plenty of magic. Use my powers to help these people.” He gestured around the church, at those desperate souls still clinging to life. He could tell which ones would reach his side. “Save the ones worth saving. It’s part of the Arrangement, after all. Help when needed. You need it.” He pinned the angel with a stare, begging him to see what Crowley was offering.  _ Take it, take it! _

Anything to wipe that look off Aziraphale’s face. 

Something squeezed his chest, a sharp pain under his breastbone and through his heart. Let him take this gift, please, anyone--

“Hell will not be pleased.” Aziraphale looked to Crowley, the light gone from his eyes. He resumed cleaning the body, though the soul had departed. “You probably shouldn’t risk them finding out.”

Another loss. “Please.” Crowley didn’t beg, hated shredding his dignity to another. And yet, he’d do it. Go on his knees to prevent this. This wasn’t their fight. They fought for souls, using their abilities to change paths. Not to stand back and watch as their Head Offices used this disaster as a mass clean of the board to sort it out later in the hopes of getting ahead.

“This isn’t right.” Crowley was resolute, a horrible, tearing pain in his chest aching with every breath.  _ Do something, do something! _ “I’ll deal with Hell. Say I was...Grooming future uprisings. Someone’s got to survive in order to create problems. Besides, I can… This overwrites it. Pestilence’s actions took over. I can hide underneath them. For a while.” His voice trembled. So much for his cool and casual demeanour. He was trying to stop Aziraphale from breaking, not join him!

Aziraphale watched him for a long time. “Alright,” he agreed finally, voice low. Not even another argument. This had drained him to his limits.

Crowley didn’t wait for him to change his mind. “Right.” He dropped all his barriers, shooting his essence quickly towards Aziraphale. It was quick, easier than before. Maybe because they’d done it before, maybe it was his need driving him on. He knew the  _ shape  _ of Aziraphale; where the pieces of his soul should go to slide into his skin. 

In no time at all, he was flexing short, stubby fingers and wincing at the pain in his back. “Angel, you need a break,” he muttered, straightening up with a pop. Crowley rolled his neck and shook out his hands. A few movements of his wrist, some stretching, a deep breath or two. He was ready to go. He flicked his gaze over the people lying there. Some he could tell were already gone; those he couldn’t save. Some of them stubbornly clung to life, and those were his priority. “Alright. Who do you want helped first?” 

Aziraphale gave him a look, unbridled gratitude flashing there like a sun. Just for a moment, before his now-angular face slide to neutrality. Couldn’t betray his joy at a demon’s intervention. “They all need help.” He gestured to the room. “Do what you can.” With a sigh, he stumbled backwards until he hit a wall, sliding down in a tiny patch of blank space and closing his eyes.

So Crowley did what he could. His powers were topped up, and he used them to devastating effect. Boils shrunk and were mysteriously cleared up. Aches and pains faded, wounds were healed in rapid time. Bleeding stopped, and lungs filled a little easier. He wasn’t subtle, figuring they didn’t have much time. Yet he also didn’t go too far. The people he helped were dragged back to health by the pull of his magic, but they weren’t cured completely. 

It was a triage of sorts. Do what he could to keep them breathing and likely to recover. Don’t waste magic on those on their last breaths. Don’t spend too much time on one person when there were others waiting.

He moved around the room, person after person after person. More were constantly being brought in, replacing the empty pallets as soon as they were cleared.

Crowley kept at it until night had fallen, and a warm hand on his arm drew his attention. He startled, having been caught up in the motions that he’d lost track of the outside world.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, using the hand on his arm as leverage to pull Crowley to his feet. “That’s it, dear boy. There’s no one else to help.”

“But I can--” Crowley waved uselessly; at the people huddled together, at the mess covering the church floor. He could do  _ more. _

Aziraphale shook his head. “You’ve done enough. This is more...more than I hoped.” He slung Crowley’s arm around his shoulder and started towing him outside.

Crowley stumbled outside and breathed in the air, hating the taste of it. Outside was a little better, compared to the stench of death assaulting his nose inside. He’d gone numb after a bit, no longer noticing once he’d thrown himself into healing.

“I was forbidden, you know,” Aziraphale continued softly. He was quiet, his voice reflective. At least the utter exhaustion had cleared from his eyes somewhat. “I couldn’t heal them with miracles. I could bless the water and the bandages and do what I could to clear the air, but I couldn’t do what you just did.  _ Thank you _ .” He bowed his head.

Guilt crept into Crowley’s stomach, disgust weighing his shoulders down. No angel should ever bow to a wretched creature like him. “Don’t mention it. Ever.” He tilted his chin up and gave his best smirk, knowing as he did that it was worthless. He wanted to take Aziraphale from this place. Find a quiet tavern in a town far away and drink until this century blew over. Yet he knew the angel would stay here. Until the very end. “So. Let’s go further. I need fresh air.”

Aziraphale took the lead, gently guiding them around the back of the church to the quiet orchard there. Only a few gnarled old apple trees still grew, the branches dry and bare, the leaves browned and crunching underfoot. Cold brown dirt scuffed under their feet, damp from the chill air and mildew. The sky above was dark, the barest hint of stars peeking out through the heavy clouds. 

Crowley allowed himself to lean into Aziraphale, forgetting that the angel was still wearing his body, and then didn’t care. “Better out here,” he mumbled. The excessive use of his powers had drained him, and he understood on a bone deep level why Aziraphale had looked the way he had. It was a miserable garden, but it had a bench and it was away from the death.  For a moment, Crowley could pretend things were okay. He dropped onto the bench, Aziraphale’s body far less sinuous than he was used to. He felt  _ heavy _ , in a way he never did.

Aziraphale joined him on the bench and leaned close. “Should swap back,” he noted, glancing sidelong at Crowley. “But I don’t know...if I have the strength right now.” He looked down at his hands, currently long and thin. 

Crowley lifted an arm and draped it over Aziraphale’s shoulders, tucking the angel into his body. “Me neither. Let’s just stay here like this for a while.” He tucked his nose into curling red hair and breathed in his own hellfire and oranges scent. He’d never paid attention to how his body was, and it was odd to realise he had unique scents and sounds. 

“Alright then.” Aziraphale closed slitted eyes, his head dropping to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. 

The late night air filled his lungs, slowly cooling him down and soothing his frayed emotions. It would take a long time for things to go back to how they were. For the world to recover from this widespread death. But together? They would survive. Endure.

Crowley looked at the angel-in-demon-form and marvelled at how they’d gotten here. From antagonistic beginnings, to this...companionship. Who else would always be here, long after the humans had faded to dust?

The arm on Aziraphale’s shoulder tightened. He’d do what it took to keep Aziraphale safe and here on Earth. If that meant being here, in this agonising, pain-filled church healing humans God had deemed unworthy, then that’s where he’d be. Even if it was just for a moment’s peace.

Crowley turned his gaze to the unforgiving stars and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you spot any errors! I'm grateful for the one person who commented last chapter <3 I'm glad someone's reading this little story.


	4. The bookshop, 1941 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the ruined church and some divine healing.

  1. **The Bookshop, 1941 AD.**



He loved Crowley.

That realisation resonated through his body, waves of love and warmth settling somewhere deep inside. The last piece of a puzzle slotting into place; something that had bothered him for the past few centuries now clear.

He loved Crowley. Had for a very long time. When one was so long lived however, slow experiences like that took some time to expand. He hadn’t understood the emotions he’d been feeling, chalking it up to the general area and the feedback loop they seemed caught in.

Aziraphale unlocked the bookshop, his gaze trailing over the two storeys of books, all arranged according to his current method (the author’s year of death in ascending order) and tucked into every possible space between his accumulated trinkets. Once his regular check was done, he stepped aside to let Crowley in. "After all  _ that _ ,” he began, meaning the entirety of a group of human monsters and the blowing up of said monsters, “I think we need some tea," he said to the demon's back. He glanced down, seeing the awkward, abrupt steps the demon was taking. Where was Crowley’s smooth, sleek gait?

Steps. The consecrated ground. 

Crowley muttered something under his breath, ambling over to the well-worn recliner chair in the corner and collapsing in a boneless heap. He sighed, slinking down into the plush beige cushions. 

Trailing after him, Aziraphale watched closely, his thoughts running in circles over the events of earlier and his realisation. “My dear,” he said, unsure of how to phrase his thoughts. Crowley rescuing him. The demon's burned feet.  _ Loving _ Crowley.

In the end, the choice was easy. Crowley had saved him, therefore Crowley came first.

He was an angel. He was built to help others.

"What?" Crowley flicked off his hat gracelessly, letting it drop to the floor. His glasses hung precariously from two fingers, dropped onto the table. Slitted golden pupils surveyed the room, before settling on Aziraphale. A forked tongue tasted the air. He’d slowly slunk down the chair, wincing when his feet slid along the ground, eventually going boneless and draped over the armrests. As if only here would he let his guard down, enough to show his true feelings.

Aziraphale dropped his hat and coat on the coat rack, strode over to Crowley, and knelt down at his feet.

Crowley drew himself half-upright, eyes wide and his hands gripping the armrests. “Angel? W-what are you doing?” 

Surely it was obvious? He was caring for the one he loved, of course. He was an angel. Built to love, and he loved this particular demon. So, he was going to take care of him. Placing a hand on Crowley’s knee, smoothing over the expensive fabric, Aziraphale fixed him with a serious look. His divine powers would burn Crowley’s skin if he tried to heal him directly. This would require an indirect approach. 

Crowley had once demanded they swap corporations so he could access Aziraphale’s powers. Well, Aziraphale would simply return the favour. “I need you to swap corporations with me, my dear.” He said it simply, like it was a given.

Mouth opening and closing, Crowley continued to stare at him. “...What?” He licked his lips, never looking away. “Why...would you want to do that?”

Aziraphale’s face softened of its own accord, love flooding him with warmth for the being in front of him. Of course Crowley didn’t see how important he was, how much  _ good _ he brought to the world. “Crowley. My dear. Your poor feet will hurt for weeks if we do nothing. Let me wear your form for a little while. Divine burns won’t harm me, and I can heal you from the inside.”

Crowley twitched, his mouth twisting and his head already shaking. “No. Nope. No need. I’ll be fine, angel, stop worrying about me.” His leg --the one not pinned under Aziraphale's hand-- bounced in agitation. Always in motion; that was Crowley. 

Funny how the demon’s constant action no longer bothered him. Somewhere along the way, he’d come to accept Crowley as he was, and his quirks were endearing, rather than a sign of the Enemy. Pieces of Crowley that even his own people didn’t know. Only Aziraphale did, and that pleased him deep down.

“Besides,” Aziraphale continued, ignoring his protest, a soft smile playing about his lips. “I owe you my life.” This was an irrefutable fact. Crowley had gone out of his way to save an angel, and Aziraphale wouldn’t forget it. His heart seemed too full, too big for his chest when he gazed at the demon, his saviour. “Please let me do this for you. Anthony J Crowley.”

Hissing, Crowley jerked his legs up to his chest, causing Aziraphale’s hand to slide off, and wrapped his arms around himself. “You don’t...you don’t have to call me that. If you don’t want to. I like…” He lowered his voice, his eyes flicking around the room but not quite meeting Aziraphale’s. “...The way you say Crowley,” he mumbled, his hands clenching tighter into his pants.

Aziraphale slowly raised his hands, placing them feather-light on Crowley's ankles. Crowley was good at distractions. Anything to avoid discussing what he didn’t want to. The trick was to make it worth his while. "Crowley," he crooned, letting his thumbs shift Crowley's socks down, brushing over the bone. "I will perform--"

A spasm went through Crowley, his fingers digging into his legs and his wide eyes staring intently at Aziraphale. He gasped, a choked, sharp sound that died off almost as quickly as he made it.

What had he done to get that reaction? Aziraphale blinked, lifting his hands from Crowley’s ankles and removing all physical contact. Maybe he’d been too close? They weren’t that physical with each other, but it wasn’t uncommon. He frowned and rethought his approach. Shifting his weight, he dropped his hands from Crowley’s ankles. He shuffled backwards and leaned down to press his lips to the rather dusty wooden floor. Hmm. Perhaps he should clean up a bit...

Crowley shifted above him, his legs twitching. Confused by Aziraphale’s actions, he asked, “What are you doing?” He adjusted his position, leaning forward to look down while keeping his legs raised enough that his feet weren’t touching the ground. “Are you...begging?”

The poor dear. He smiled to himself, glad his face was hidden. “Oh no, dear.” 

The bait dangled there, waiting.

Crowley, being Crowley, took it. “So...why are you lying on the floor?” Ah, curiosity. Ever his downfall.

“A fair trade.” Aziraphale sat up, rocking back with a wince to see Crowley’s expression. “So this corporation’s knees and back will ache.” It wasn’t the most comfortable position and he was quietly regretting his decision. 

Crowley stared for a moment, until his brows furrowed and he scowled. "Aziraphale, that's ridiculous."

“Good.” Aziraphale smiled benignly. "Now you understand how you sound."

There was a huff from the chair.

Aziraphale returned to his kneeling position, shuffling around until he could hold out a hand without falling over. “Come on my dear.” Those  _ dears _ were slipping out more and more. When had he picked that up? “Swap forms with me. Let me help you heal.”

Crowley scraped his fingers along the arms of the chair, and then opened his mouth, no doubt to protest further. 

“No,” Aziraphale forestalled him. “I mean this, Crowley. You wouldn’t let me go on without help. Well, now I’m returning the favour. Please. I won’t hurt you.” He held out a hand and waited.

Crowley snorted. “I know that. You’re too caught up in your book worlds to hurt anyone.” Still, his hand crept forward, until he was linking their fingers together. “Course, that doesn’t mean you have to. If you don’t want to. I’ll recover. Eventually.” The last part was muttered under his breath.

“I want to.” Aziraphale refused to allow any more delays. Every part of him was leaning towards Crowley, ready to undo the holy damage and heal his love of his pain. After all, he was a being of love. How could he sit here when someone he loved was suffering? 

That being said, he needed to assess the damage first of all. Crowley was favouring his feet, but that didn’t mean the holy light wasn’t poisoning him from the inside. Aziraphale wouldn’t put it past Crowley to hide what he’d perceive as a weakness. 

Warmth rose in him suddenly, squeezing his heart and flushing affection through his body. This dear, utter nonsensical demon who was so  _ good  _ at heart. This was the being he loved. He dropped all barriers without care, preparing for that rush of consciousness.

Crowley nodded, his long fingers tightening their grip on Aziraphale’s. “Alright. Let’s do it, I guess.” 

The change happened in no time at all. Aziraphale was sure Crowley would feel his emotions in that infinite moment; the love singing in his veins flowing through their mingled souls. How could he not? He tried to send out his essence in the cosmic equivalent of his fingertips brushing bare skin. Would Crowley feel the comfort he offered?

And then he was sitting solidly in the demon’s corporation, and all at once felt the sharp, blazing heat in his feet. “You poor thing,” he sighed.

“Are you okay?” The voice was hesitant, his own sounding strange and semi-choked. “Can you feel it?” Crowley’s borrowed eyes were very blue, wide open and shining in concern.

“It is far less an injury to an angel,” Aziraphale reassured him, hunching over so he could reach the snakeskin shoes Crowley insisted on wearing. “But first, we should get these off so I can assess the damage.”

“I’ll do it.” Crowley batted his hands away, curly hair floating around his head. “Least I can do,” he mumbled, reaching out to pick up Aziraphale’s foot.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll serpentine eyes. Crowley had saved  _ him. _ Had run --or hopped-- into a church without care, all to save an angel. Aziraphale owed him greatly. 

Curious, he let his tongue flick out, tasting the air. In this body, he had access to far more. More scents; that tantalising way he could taste scents defying his understanding, and yet piquing his curiosity more. He could taste cologne; sandalwood and citrus, the must of old books, the fresh tang of light. It was so strange, to taste his scent through another. How did Crowley stand it?

The snake in question neatly divested both snakeskin shoes, his manicured hands lingering briefly, before tugging off both socks. He hissed when he caught sight of the burns. “Are you sure you’re alright?” His hands hovered uselessly, unwilling to touch and cause any more damage.

Aziraphale raised a leg to check the soles of his feet. Ah, yes. They were blistered, red raw in places and blackened in others. Had Crowley been human, Aziraphale would have worried it was nerve damage. No human could have withstood such an intense pain, even if it had faded somewhat without the consecrated ground.

He could sense Crowley watching his face, waiting for a wince, or a flinch. Anything to betray pain. So he kept a careful rein on his face, clicking his tongue and probing the injury with his angel-sense. “I believe I can draw out some of the residual holy energy,” he announced finally, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. The light tended to linger, and would continue to burn for weeks afterwards without being treated.

Crowley slipped backwards, his hands falling into his lap. “That’s good,” he said dully. He seemed to fold into himself, his weightier body slumping forward. His teeth worried his bottom lip, but he wouldn’t raise his gaze from Aziraphale’s feet.

Always protective of what he held dear, and yet so prickly when you brought it up. Aziraphale lifted a foot and placed it on the opposite thigh, cross-legged, contorted in a way his own corporation couldn't manage. Crowley's flexibility paid off, giving him a far more accurate view of the injury than he otherwise could have seen.

He trailed his fingers over the arch, barely touching it, and yet his gentle touch caused radiating pain in the afflicted area. Aziraphale sucked in a breath. How much worse would it have been for Crowley, feeling it all without Heavenly grace protecting him?

Aziraphale closed his eyes, letting his other senses unfurl towards his feet. He concentrated on the part of him that was still angel, using his essence to track towards the similar energy trapped in Crowley’s form. In this state, it wasn’t hard to find the cracks in the consecration; the lines of divinity threading through demonic flesh and blistering it.

Starting in the centre, Aziraphale poured himself into the area and filled it with his own power. Slowly, he wove himself into the magic, twining it inside and of himself. He was part of it now, the energy recognising him as the same type and bonding with him.

When Aziraphale judged the time was right, he drew all that light into himself, clearing a path through the flesh. Which left him then able to transfer his own power it its place, soothing the burns and healing the damaged flesh as he went.

Time was meaningless in this state. All his focus was on healing, the knitting and weaving of flesh, the encouraging of new cells to replace those damaged.

Finally he was done, drawing back with a groan. How long had he been hunched over in that pose? Now Crowley’s back would ache. He stretched back and upwards, raising his arms above his head and feeling his spine pop in too many places to be human. 

Aziraphale held up his bare feet and wiggled his toes. “There! Good as new,” he proclaimed, only to cough and clear his throat. His voice rasped, and his eyes now sought out the window to see faint sunlight streaming in. “Morning already?” It had taken him the rest of the night to fix this?

Crowley hadn’t appeared to move at all, still curled into a ball on the floor in front of Aziraphale’s chair. His hair hung in limp curls, a few plastered to his forehead, and there were bags under his eyes. “Angel,” he yawned, sitting upright with a grimace. “You had me worried for a bit there. What took you so long?” His eyes flicked over Aziraphale’s feet, his brows raising when he took in their state.

“I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t hurt anymore.” Aziraphale reverently placed his feet on the floor and stood up. “See?” He met Crowley’s gaze and his smile faded. “My dear, why were you on the floor? Surely you didn’t stay that way all night.” He frowned. Crowley could have used the couch in the back room. The floor  _ was  _ rather dusty, after all.

Crowley shrugged, his expression somewhere between despairing and grateful. He edged closer, shaking his head and rubbing a hand down his face. “How could I leave you here? You were fixing my body. And what if something had happened? You might have needed me. I couldn’t just leave.”

Well, it might have been strange if Crowley in Aziraphale’s body had left while Aziraphale remained, but that was the least of their worries. Aziraphale decided not to push the issue, lest Crowley clam up entirely. “Alright then. I’m glad you stayed.” He smiled, looking at the demon fondly.

Crowley coughed and fluttered a hand, seemingly fascinated with the floor. 

“Your feet are fine now, my dear. I’m happy to return your corporation to you. You can examine my healing for yourself.” Aziraphale offered a hand.

“Wait,” Crowley said, kneeling in front of him. “Can I…” He held up one of the discarded shoes with a strange expression on his face.

“Yes?” Aziraphale sat back down and waited for Crowley to finish.

“Can I put them back on?” Crowley put the shoe in front of Aziraphale’s foot. “For you...or me, I mean. Since you took them off. Only fair I put them back, right?” His hands twitched, nervous energy always coiled to spring.

What a strange person he was. Aziraphale hid a smile and lifted his foot. “That sounds fair to me,” he agreed, keeping his voice neutral. 

Crowley was a creature with many moods. When he was like this, it was better to indulge him.

Aziraphale felt love rising in his chest again. He was in love with Crowley. A demon wearing his face. A demon he swapped forms with to heal a divine injury with his own Almighty-given powers.

His blood ran cold. Had he done something he shouldn’t have? Gone against the Ineffable Plan? Surely...surely he wouldn’t have been able to do it if it wasn’t part of the Plan. 

Surely he would have been struck down if it wasn’t right. If divine punishment awaited him, it would strike now, wouldn’t it?

The only thing that happened was Crowley moved his foot to the floor so he could tie up a shoelace. “You alright, angel? Not too tight?”

“I’m fine, my dear,” Aziraphale hummed, folding his hands in his lap.

He looked at Crowley, letting all his love settle like a blanket around his being. 

It was easy. Like he’d been doing it all along and just hadn’t realised. Comfortable, safe. A tiny thread of their complicated tapestry smoothing into place. Now he has words to name the emotion, it seemed so much stronger. Who knew love could feel this wonderful? To be so attuned with another was a peculiar kind of bliss.

Crowley finished putting the second shoe on, his hands sitting there a moment too long. “Right.” He shifted position to one knee and held up a hand. Swap back then?” Right, he was probably itching to examine his corporation.

Soon enough, Aziraphale sat in his own form once more. Love surrounded him, part of who he was and what he felt. So much, he felt  _ so much _ . 

It would take time to truly sort through all the new experiences, the new feelings. He needed to categorise them, much like the books lining his shelves. But Aziraphale didn’t mind. This was a big job, but he had Crowley there.

And they had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you spot any errors, it's late and I probably missed a few.  
> Don't hesitate to leave some comments telling me what you think! I like to hear your comments/questions/theories/any sort of written validation. :P


	5. Soho, 2019 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the burning bookshop : ^ )  
> Features a lot of dialogue directly from the show.

  1. **Soho, 2019 AD** ****



Crowley’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his unnecessary heart beating a thousand miles a minute. As fast as his car, or faster again.  _ Aziraphale! I’m sorry _ ! His thoughts kept circling back to their argument at the bandstand.

How  _ broken _ Aziraphale had sounded when he’d said,  _ ‘You can’t leave, Crowley! There’s nowhere to go.’  _ And yet, he’d hesitated when Crowley had said together. His words said one thing, his expression another. Crowley had just gone  _ too fast _ . 

In the end, it didn’t matter. He knew Aziraphale wouldn’t have gone. No, the angel would stick it out to the very end. Stubborn bastard. Crowley angrily stabbed the speed-dial button on his phone once more.

_ The number you have called is currently unavailable. Please hang up and try your call again. _

He snarled under his breath, wrenching the wheel of the Bentley and taking a corner far too hard. “Come on, come on.  _ Please _ pick up the phone, angel.”

_ T he number you have called is currently unavailable. Please hang up and try your call again. _

Outside the car, dark storm clouds covered the sky, turning the day to night. Rain bucketed down, splattering against the windshield of his car and filling his ears with a thunderous roar. Or maybe that was his fear…

When his attention was pulled away from his phone and his thoughts of the angel, he could hear sirens clanging. 

They get louder the closer he got to the bookshop.

_ No. Please, no _ .  _ Let him be okay, let it just be a mistake. _

Ahead, the bookshop shone like a beacon. Flame licked the walls and flickered from the shattered windows above. Firefighters were already collecting at the bottom, unrolling hoses with grim efficiency.

_ Aziraphale! _

His heart stopped beating.

Crowley pulled up in a screech of brakes, sliding out before the car had almost stopped. Rain immediately soaked him, and in a panic he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” A firefighter called, noting his appearance.

Crowley strode towards the door, spreading his arms. “Do I look like a run a bookshop?” he sneered, turning around and promptly ignoring anything that wasn’t Aziraphale’s burning bookshop.

“Appearances can be deceptive. I, for example,” the firefighter continued, racing forward. “Hey! You can’t go in there!”

Crowley raised a hand to click his fingers. The doors parted before him like Moses with the waves. Another click and they slammed behind him.

“Aziraphale!” he called, heart in his throat. The flame filled the air with choking smoke, coating his tongue in ash like Hell in the bad old days. Fire wouldn’t hurt him, but it would hurt the surroundings. Aziraphale’s beloved books were incinerating as he watched, fire rending the memories lost. “Aziraphale!” He all but screamed the name, voice thick in his throat.

Casting his senses out, he  _ filled _ the bookshop with his presence, the part of him that always knew where the angel was questing, searching. He found nothing. “Where the Heaven are you, you idiot?” He swung around, wildly, begging to be mistaken. “I can’t find you!”

His presence resounded through, bouncing off the walls and coming back empty. It was like a void; an absence where the angel usually was, now made obvious by its lack. Where was he? 

_ Don’t leave me behind! _

“For Go-- for Sa- ARGH!” Crowley screeched, lips drawn back and teeth bared. “For SOMEBODY’S SAKE,” he ranted, his fingers curled into claws. “Where ARE you?” 

Not here. Not anywhere, perhaps. Not anymore.

Crowley sucked in a breath, his chest feeling like it’d been kicked in. No, no no no no no. He turned around, desperately hoping he’d missed something, a clue, a message,  _ anything _ in this burning hellhole.

Nothing.

A jet of water burst through the window, shattering glass and striking him in the torso. Crowley fell backwards, his body hitting the ground with a harsh thump. He felt it in his bones, a jolt of pain that couldn’t compare to the sheer emptiness in his being. His ears rang from the blast, background noise to his relentless thoughts.

_ Aziraphale. Gone. _

Dragging himself to a sitting position, Crowley forced himself to accept reality. “Aziraphale,” he choked, hunching over. “You’ve gone. Somebody killed my best friend!” He dug his nails into his arms, before dropping his hands to the ground. “Bastards!” His voice quavered. “All of you!” He threw the words out, surrounded by flame and the ashes of Aziraphale’s books. 

Slumped over, feeling like the world had already ended, Crowley saw a book. This one was slightly singed, yet the cover was still readable. A piece of Aziraphale had survived. Without thinking, he picked it up, curling his fingers around the darkened edges in a way he wished he could have the angel himself. 

_ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch _ . 

Crowley sighed, a deep hiss that came from the bottoms of his snakeskin shoes. The book from the car. The one that had so distracted Aziraphale. Well, it was a souvenir regardless. Something tangible to grasp, and pretend all was well.

The end of the world didn’t seem so bad now. Once the Antichrist wiped out the world, well, he’d be free of these feelings. Maybe some small part of him would find Aziraphale. 

Hah. Laughable, the idea of demons having an afterlife.

The only thing that would make it bearable was Aziraphale, and he was gone.

Crowley picked himself up, the book clasped loosely in one hand, and stared at the ceiling. 

What was the point of it all?

Nothing.

The End of the World was happening soon and he couldn’t bring himself to care.

His usual saunter had none of the energy when he left the bookshop. The firefighters stared at him, and he dropped the broken sunglasses on the ground and left. None of them challenged him. Maybe they’d just seen somebody walk out of an inferno unscathed. Maybe they didn’t care. Like him.

Behind the wheel of the Bentley, he reached over and pulled out a spare pair of sunglasses, slipping them over his eyes. Nothing for it now. The world was ending, and he’d lost Aziraphale. Bugger it all. If only the angel had  _ trusted _ him.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It was more like what if Aziraphale had given up everything he was and gone to the stars, what if he’d chosen Crowley over Heaven, what if he had succeeded in talking to the Almighty…

A bolt of pain like lightning went through him. Surely... _ She  _ hadn’t destroyed Aziraphale for his blasphemy? No, no, nononono. She didn’t intervene. Ever.

She’d never listened to him before. And Aziraphale was one of Her angels. He couldn’t...he couldn’t have paid the price for Crowley, could he?

Crowley threw his head back and screamed, almost running into another car. He couldn’t deal with this. The only thing that would shut off his racing mind was alcohol. Copious amounts of alcohol. Anything to silence the  _ it’s my fault _ echoing around and around his brain.

Surely there had to be a place around here where he could get absolutely, world-endingly smashed.

…

Crowley leaned back in his chair, gripping the bottle by the neck. He was well on his way to solidly drunk, and his words had gone maudlin.  _ I never asked to be a demon _ .

“Aziraphale…” he sighed, wishing just once he’d said how much Aziraphale meant to him. Hell, if he could have changed bodies and faced Aziraphale’s fate he would have, no second thought. He would have worn that beloved, rounded form and walked into Heaven and faced the punishment without care. Anything to stop how he felt  _ now _ . The gap in his soul where Aziraphale had been for six thousand years ached, torn shreds stabbing him from the inside like broken glass. 

At least the world was ending soon. He’d take obliteration over  _ this. _

Drinking alone was boring, the part of him not sloshed remembered. Always better with Aziraphale. That’s why he’d always gone out to eat, or let himself into the bookshop. He flicked his eyes ahead, the corners of his vision rippling like water. For a moment, he almost thought it looked like Aziraphale.

Then he felt a  _ presence.  _ Familiar...missing.

The watery blur sat opposite him, somehow managing to give off a prissy, prim feel.

“Are you here?” he asked, squinting. What a dumb question, of course he wasn’t here. It was clearly the alcohol talking.

“Good question!” The watery figure managed to give off the impression of beaming. “Not certain! Never done this before.” Aziraphale --for surely no one else shone like the sun when they smiled like that-- looked at him. “Can you hear me?”

Crowley stared at him, sunglasses slipping down his nose. “Course I can hear you.”  _ How _ he could was another question entirely. One he wasn’t thinking about because his heart had just kick-started in relief at the angel’s presence. Aziraphale was alive! Well...sort of.

“Did you go to Alpha Centauri?”

"Nah," Crowley drawled, rocking his head side to side. "Stuff happened." That was putting it mildly. "I lost my--" My love, my only, the other piece of my soul --"best friend." How diminishing the words sounded.

"So sorry to hear it." Aziraphale, the blessed idiot, offering his condolences.

_ I was talking about you, you absolute moron. _

"Listen, back at my bookshop, there's a book I need you to get."

"Oh…" Crowley bit his lip, a wash of loss going through him. "Your bookshop isn't there any more." No more warm nights curled in the armchair, watching Aziraphale puttering about. No more of the angel's melodious voice reading poetry and prose, lulling Crowley to sleep and capturing his interest simultaneously. 

Aziraphale looked at him, disbelief flickering over his faded, barely-there face. "Oh?"

"It burned down."  _ Sorry, I was too late.  _ "It's all gone."

"All of it?" Aziraphale parroted the words, his watery face crumpling. 

"Yeah…" He wished he'd drunk enough alcohol to wash that defeated face out of his memory. “Where are you?” How was he here? Floating...or speaking.

Aziraphale thought about it. “I’m...not really anywhere, I’m afraid. I’ve been discorporated.”

Ah. Crowley grimaced in sympathy, the alcohol at the back of his throat burning. He might have mumbled a response.

“I just need a receptive body,” Aziraphale was saying. He’d been talking the whole time. “Pity I can’t inhabit yours.”

Crowley tuned back in. “You could,” he said without thinking. “Well...not inhabit. But like..be me. Share! Share, I mean.” What did he mean? “I mean, we’ve done it before. Dozens of times now. Swapped bodies. This is the same.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Aziraphale or himself now. And why did he want to?

Mostly because being that close to the angel sounded good. The non-drunk part of Crowley was still doing backflips at the realisation that the angel wasn’t completely gone. His heart rate had decided to pick itself up and run, and his stomach felt rather queasy, though that could just be the alcohol. 

Aziraphale’s blurry form stopped talking for a moment. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand. “Wouldn’t we...explode? Angel, demon. Sharing a body?”

“Well…” Crowley hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t thought much at all, if he was being honest. “Nah. Should be fine.” He could be passive; instead of reaching for Aziraphale’s essence he could stay put. Let the angel come to him. “Give it a go?”

There was a pause, while Aziraphale thought it through. “We...can try.” He didn’t sound sure, yet his hands were reaching across the table towards Crowley. “What do...we do?”

“Ngk…” Okay, he hadn’t thought too far ahead. “You just...come here. Try to possess me, I guess. And I’ll sit here and try not to think about it.” Or at all. Then maybe the ridiculousness of this situation wouldn’t pierce his alcoholic fog.

“Right.” The watery form wobbled a bit, slowly looming closer. In a moment that hung like eternity, Aziraphale brushed what appeared to be his hands up Crowley’s arms.

He couldn’t stop the shiver that ran down his spine. “Cold,” he mumbled, his fingers twitching on the table. Crowley forced himself to stillness, letting his mind wander to thoughts of Aziraphale. Memories of the angel stroking a hand down his books like his current form had Crowley’s arms. Dining at the Ritz, pleasure at the taste radiating across his face. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when Crowley did something  _ nice _ for him. Like clearing his beloved jacket of a stain.

_ Oh _ .

He opened his eyes, not even realising they’d closed, and addressed his thought to the presence in his mind.  _ Aziraphale? _

_ Oh! I can hear you! _

There was something delighted in the tone, if a mental voice could be said to have one. It tingled, in a way. “Alright, alright. Calm down.” It was easier to say the words out loud. To differentiate between his thoughts and the angelic presence hovering somewhere inside him. Urk. That was a weird concept. 

Crowley let his senses expand, brushing against where he thought Aziraphale was.

It was like sticking his hand in fire. Every nerve ending set alight, energy and presence filling his veins and flooding his body with light and love. He went rigid, back arched and his breath catching in his throat.

It was everything; too much and not enough at the same time. His whole being felt like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket, all lightning and electricity shocking his system. He hissed under his breath, twisting and turning in his chair, trying to come to grips with the sensations threatening to overwhelm him.

He might have been writhing in that chair for days, for all he could tell. Yet the feeling receded, drawing out of him in a rush and leaving him hunched over and breathless.  _ Aziraphale? _

There was no response.

“Aziraphale?” he forced out from a suddenly dry throat. “Angel?”

“I’m here.” Once again, Aziraphale’s blurred vision appeared in the chair opposite him. There was a sound like a sigh. “Sorry, my dear. I didn’t realise it was going to hurt you so much.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, to claim it hadn’t hurt at all, and could he please have that closeness back again.

Aziraphale kept talking, taking away the chance. “Well. I’ll just have to tell you what I found out. I had written it all down in the book.”

“What book?” Crowley finally got the words out, wincing when the motion pulled something in his throat. He needed to chill out.

“The one the nice lady left behind.” Aziraphale’s voice somehow managed to be dry, despite him not actually being there. “ _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of--” _

“ _ Agnes Nutter! _ Yes!” Crowley sat up, beaming. “I took it!”

Aziraphale stared at him, taken aback. “You have it?”

“Souvenir!” Crowley chirped, pulling the slightly scorched black book out of his jacket’s pocket. Regardless of it not having been in there a second ago. He felt pleased with himself. He’d managed to do something right, even in the midst of his own personal hell.

“It’s all in there! I wrote it all down. You need to go to Tadfield Airbase.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Why there, of all places? Opening the book granted him a glimpse of a map, conveniently circled at the airbase. “Why?” Couldn’t he just stay here and drink some more? He had his drinking buddy back! Granted, Aziraphale couldn’t drink, but that was a minor issue compared to his potential ending. A little discorporation was nothing.

“World ending. Quite soon now.” Aziraphale’s form flickered and started to fade. “I’ll meet you there. But we’d best get a wiggle on.”

“What?” Crowley bit back a sigh. Even as drunk as he was, Aziraphale’s horrendously out of date slang struck him like a blow.

“Tadfield. Airbase.” The angel disappeared entirely.

“I know that,” Crowley said petulantly. “It was the wiggle on!” He lifted his arms to the empty chair. With a burst of will, he sobered himself up and strolled out to the Bentley.

He had an airbase to get to.


	6. Crowley's flat, 2019 AD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a trial! Also contains dialogue directly from the show.

  1. **Crowley’s flat, 2019 AD  
** ****



_“Choose your faces wisely...”_

The prophecies had never been wrong, Aziraphale reminded himself, once again walking across the length of Crowley’s empty flat. _Pacing_ might be a better word for it. Hands behind his back, his mind whirring at max speed trying to solve the puzzle that was Crowley.

Surely pretending to be a demon in front of the entirety of Hell couldn’t be _that_ hard. 

He _knew_ Crowley, knew him in a way only one with six thousand year’s worth of knowledge could. The phrases Crowley used, the poetry in his sleek movements. For God’s sake, he’d borrowed the demon’s corporation before!

All he had to do was act; like he had in the past, like he was one of the actors in the plays they’d watched together over the years. It should be easy. He’d watched Crowley for so long, had observed and monitored Crowley’s behaviour since forever. 

Crowley moved like silk, all sinuous movements and carefully constructed angles. A walk that said _notice me_. His inherent swagger masked the anxiety bubbling underneath, the mess of contradictions that was Crowley inside.

Translating that language, that intrinsic _Crowleyness_ however, didn’t come naturally, hence his awkwardness now. It was like words on a page, and Aziraphale had to try speaking them out loud with no clue to their pronunciation. 

Pushing his weight onto one leg, he jutted a hip out like Crowley sometimes stood. He tried to roll his shoulders and step, exaggerating the motion. All the times he’d been in Crowley’s corporation before, and he still couldn’t get this right.

From the couch, Crowley watched and barked a laugh. “Angel, you look so stiff. Relax a bit or you won’t fool anyone.” He lounged back, one arm draped over the couch, before he swore and sat up. “Damn it.” He straightened his back and put his hands in his lap. “Sitting like this is uncomfortable. How can you stand it?”

Aziraphale raised his eyes Heavenward. “Good posture is important, Crowley,” he lectured, not for the first time. “I do not slouch.”

“And I don’t walk like that,” Crowley muttered petulantly. “Swing your hips when you walk. Rock side to side like...like a pendulum. Make it look like you aren’t even trying.”

“Your instructions are ridiculous.” Aziraphale tried his best to mimic that supposedly effortless swagger and fell short. Still, he thought he might be getting it now. Odd, how in all the time he’d been Crowley, he hadn’t mastered this yet. Counterweight, that’s what he needed. Shoulder up, hip out, alternate. 

Crowley sat up straight. “There, that was better! Just do that some more. Remember, you’re the stylish one. Pretend you know more than all of them and you’ll be fine.” He adjusted his bowtie and ran a hand through blonde curls. 

“I suppose you should make an appearance at the bookshop,” Aziraphale sighed. The knowledge his shop had burned sat there, like a wound ignored that only made itself known when it was poked. It ached, losing so much knowledge. But he had work to do, so resolutely he drew himself up and shoved those emotions into a box to be dealt with later.

“You should put my glasses on,” Crowley reminded him, standing up in a fluid motion. Even in Aziraphale’s body, he was different, aware of his weight placement in a way Aziraphale would never be.

Aziraphale put the tinted lenses on, the dark room going darker. How did Crowley handle the lesser range? Used to it, he guessed. “Until later?”

Crowley nodded, serious. “I’ll be at the park as soon as I can, but you’ll probably beat me there. Hell isn’t going to bother with a trial. They’ll just execute you.” He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Meanwhile I’ll probably have to deal with the whole Heavenly need to prove you guilty. It’s likely to take forever.” He shifted his weight, tilting to the side.

“Stand up straight,” Aziraphale sighed. “Do your best to hold your tongue. I know Gabriel is going to talk at you, but remember I never snapped back at him.”

“You should of,” Crowley muttered, his fingers twitching into claws, as if he was imagining them around a certain angel’s neck. “He’s an arse.”

Aziraphale flinched, and then looked around as if he expected retribution. Bubbles of nerves fizzed in his stomach, the knowledge of what he was about to do settling in. Was it the result of Crowley’s body? Or a reaction his spirit summoned when he thought about what lay ahead?

He was going to walk into Hell and expect to get out again. Unharmed, in a corporation not his own. Crowley was _trusting_ him with his body. It wasn’t him alone, they were in it together. 

_On their own side_.

The thought was terrifying, and humbling, and Aziraphale couldn’t handle it. Everything hitting him at once. 

They’d _somehow_ averted the Apocalypse and survived, and now he was expected to handle _this_ ? Right after all of _that?_

Suddenly, he understood how Crowley slept for a century. It must be delightful not to have to deal with these thoughts and fears all the time. 

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice was calm, measured. “We’re going to be okay. We’ve swapped corporations before. Dozens of times now. Don’t lose your faith when I need it the most.” Blue eyes flashed, and Crowley leaned forward to grab Aziraphale’s hand. 

The warmth of Crowley’s fingers felt good. “You’re right.” Aziraphale let some of the tension go, feeling his shoulders relax. “I believe in you. In us. After all,” he pulled his lips into a smirk, “nobody else knows me better than you.” He could trust Crowley to pretend to be him with utmost accuracy. When the chips were down, Crowley would come through. Like at the air base, like in a consecrated church with a Nazi gun to his head. He smiled, watching Crowley fondly. “My dear,” he murmured. 

Crowley hissed at him, but a matching smile kept tugging his lips. “Alright, alright. Let’s go get this over with.”

…

Standing in the dank, dark room, Aziraphale looked around and resisted the urge to grimace. Ugly, dim light from the room’s single bulb flickered eerily. The room was empty, save for the huge throne Beezelbub was sitting in, and a dirty, cracked bathtub situated under a big, open window. Demonic faces pressed against the glass, observing.

“Rubber of bridge? Barbershop quartet?” Aziraphale, in his guise as Crowley, glanced around. Was that a clever thing to say? Casual, blasé? He realised after the words left his thin lips that he’d probably been too dated. Crowley was _trendy_. 

“The trial of a traitor.” Beelzebub scowled, flies buzzing around and filling the small, dark room with their relentless noise. 

Crowley had given him descriptions of the denizens of Hell he was most likely to see:

Beelzebub, the judge. Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies. Short stature, face covered in pus and boils. Tended to overemphasise ‘s’ and ‘z’ sounds. Currently slouched on a chair watching the proceedings 

Hastur, he guessed, from Crowley’s description of his sometimes-report buddy. Thick jackets layering a tall form with abyss-black eyes. Hair that looked like he’d stuck his finger in an electrical socket. _Probably unhappy with me_ , Crowley had warned him.

Dagon, baring sharpened teeth and what appeared to be fish scales across her face. Her reddish-blond hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Piercing blue fish eyes stared at him, likely imagining his death.

_Goodness_ , Aziraphale thought privately. And he thought _his_ bosses were bad. 

The ‘trial’, such that it was, continued as expected.

_Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!_

The gathered demons, watching from behind a dirty glass window, chant the verdict. 

Aziraphale kept still, rigid under Crowley’s thin, black jacket. He had to play his part. “What’s it to be then?” He asked, careful to make his voice low and quiver ever so slightly. “An eternity in the deepest pit?” He made it sound like this was the worst thing he could think of.

Hastur smirks. “We’re going to do something worse. Letting the punishment fit the crime.”

He kept the grin off his face with a force of will. 

Sure enough, Michael walked in a few minutes later, jug in hand and righteousness bleeding from her form. Amidst the demons and the dark, dingy room, she was a vision of purity. Likely a carefully arranged occurrence. 

“The Archangel Michael? That’s...unlikely,” he said, pressing his lips together. Unlikely, but not unplanned. For their prophecy to work, they needed an angel. Holy water wasn’t something a demon could do, after all. 

Beelzebub ordered a test, flicking fingers at Hastur to comply.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Hastur chuckles to himself, dumping the little usher into the bathtub of holy water.

Aziraphale barely bit back a noise. The _callousness_ of it all! Obliterating one of their own just to check. He bit the inside of his cheek and was suddenly glad the dark glasses Crowley favoured hid his eyes. Who knew what kind of expression he’d been wearing otherwise?

“Demon Crowley. I sentence you to extinction by holy water. Do you have anything to say?” Beelzebub glared at him, fingers gripping the edge of the throne.

His mind went blank. What should he do? Aziraphale looked down at the body he wore, and then at the bathtub. The water wouldn’t hurt him, he knew. But...Crowley’s clothes were so nice, expensive. Even if the water didn’t hurt his body, it would destroy the clothes. “Well, yes…” he drawled, stalling. “This is a new suit, and I’d hate to ruin it. Would you mind if I took it off?” Was that something Crowley would even do?

The shocked inhales didn’t tell him an answer. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. 

Hastur snarled, but walked over to free his hands. “Keep making jokes, funny man,” he muttered, void-eyes staring daggers.

Nothing for it. Aziraphale, committed to his course, slowly took off Crowley’s jacket and folded it neatly to the side, followed by the shoe-string tie. Eventually, he stood in a plain black singlet and Crowley’s socks. He knelt down to start on the socks.

“Enough!” Hastur gripped his arms and marched him to the bathtub. “Time to meet your end, Crowley.”

Aziraphale jerked his arm free and stood at the side of the bathtub. “Better stay back,” he warned, waggling a finger. “Wouldn’t want to splash you too now, would we?” He waited for a moment, the whole room alive with anticipation. 

And then, Aziraphale gracefully tipped backwards into the water.

Oh! The looks on their faces! Aziraphale couldn’t stop a bubble of laughter escaping. Resting his socked-feet on the edges of the bathtub, he leaned back and swirled the water around his finger. 

Around him, the demons blinked and stared; horrified, terrified, disbelieving. 

He splashed in the water and started humming. Pretending this was normal, that everything was tickety-boo. Aziraphale opened his eyes and flicked water at the window.

The demons all flinched back and gasped, their eyes wide. 

So Aziraphale did it again, and again, smiling at their reactions. “I don’t suppose in all the nine circles of Hell there’s such a thing as a rubber duck?” That would make this scene perfect. Playing to Crowley’s brand of theatrics. “No?” he asked, when no one answered. “Shame.”

“He’s gone native,” Beelzebub murmured, watching him. “He isn’t one of us any more.”

No, Crowley wasn’t. He was going to stay on Earth where he was safe and never have to report to any of these demons ever again, if Aziraphale had anything to do with it.

A ding in the hallway announced the return of Michael. “Oh...Lord…” She stared at him, seeing a demon happily frolicking in the bathtub.

Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. “Michael! Duuuude…” ‘Dude’ was definitely a cool word, he remembered. “Do us a quick miracle, would you? I need a bath towel.” It was absolutely the kind of move Crowley would pull; insouciant, sleek, dismissive of their authority.

Michael, scandalised, handed over the towel.

Aziraphale wiped his face, the gears in his mind turning at light speed. Here at last was his chance to protect Crowley for good. “I think...I ought to be left alone from now on. Don’t you?” He stared Beelzebub down, waiting for the nod, before turning his stare on to Michael. There. Whether they respected that, they at least feared what he was enough to buy some time.

Eventually, there was nothing left to do but get out of the tub and towel himself off. “I’ll be going now,” he told those gathered, getting dressed and adjusting the lapels of Crowley’s nice, dark suit jacket. “I’ll be spending my time on Earth, so no need to check up on me. I’ll keep to myself.” He winked at them, forgetting he’d already put the dark spectacles back on.

Returning to Earth, he took in a deep breath, enjoying the crisp, vaguely-smoggy air of Soho. Hell was appalling, an assault on the senses and soul that one only noticed by its absence. He shuddered, ferociously glad that Crowley was safe from them once again. Now he just had to go meet said demon, and all would be well. Crowley would probably be waiting for him already, with his in-and-out to Heaven.

Crowley was not at the bench.

Aziraphale sat himself down, hands in his lap, and waited.

Ten minutes, twenty, an hour. Fear coiled in his belly, his knuckles gone white. Where was Crowley? He shouldn’t be taking this long. He linked and unlinked his fingers, his eyes whipping around the park.

Oh Lord, something couldn’t have gone wrong, could it? 

Aziraphale bit his lip, fighting down the panic threatening to rise. No, no, this was the prophecy. He _knew_ it was right, could feel it in the push and pull of their lives and all the ways they’d gotten to this point. He _knew_ Crowley, and Crowley was better than this. 

So. Maybe his trial was simply taking longer. Heavenly bureaucracy and all that. It would make sense, then, that he was late. He had answers; solutions to the problem of Crowley not being here.

Rationalising didn’t help soothe his heart though. He longed for Crowley to walk up, to make everything better with his presence alone. Regardless of what form he wore, Crowley was _alive_. A strange mess of contradictions and care, of flash appearance concealing a soft heart. 

Aziraphale inhaled, picturing Crowley as he usually was; lips pulled into a smirk, deep red hair meticulously maintained, and he sent out his love to the universe.

_Bring him back to me._

How long he sat like that, he didn’t know. 

Until a quiet voice said, “Hey, angel,” and a familiar form slid onto the bench next to him.

“There you are,” Aziraphale sighed, relief and love filling his voice. “I was beginning to worry, my dear.” 

Crowley inclined his head, blonde curls falling across sky-blue eyes. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Heaven still sucks, in case you were wondering.” His eyes were haunted, and his fingers twitched towards Aziraphale.

Aziraphale answered the unspoken question, reaching out to link their fingers together. “I know, my dear.” He smiled at the demon, _his demon_ , belief finally letting itself be known. They’d done it. They’d survived their trials. The world was theirs to live from here on out.

But there was one thing left to do.

“Right. Swap back then?” Crowley asked at last, holding up their joined hands.

Their souls mingled and merged, bound together, and then divided into their usual corporations once more.

Aziraphale could still feel that tiny piece of Crowley’s essence lingering in his body, in his soul, and he was grateful. “My dear. You know I love you,” he said, blinding smile lighting up his angelic form.

Crowley slouched on the bench, red hair falling across serpentine golden eyes. “Yeah, yeah, say it out loud, why don’t you?” His tone was fond.

Aziraphale noticed he didn’t let go of his hand. “And you, my dear?” _Do you truly feel the same? Would you put it into words, when I have looked inside your soul and known the truth of you?_

“Of course, the feeling’s mutual.” Crowley coughed, glancing away. “Love, I guess. Not very demonic, when you think about it. Probably your influence, from all the times I wore your body.” The words tumbled out of him, like he couldn’t bear to linger on the theory any more.

“I think we’ve shared our lives for too long for any other outcome.” Aziraphale had noted his own descent; his gluttony, his greed. And yet, he no longer cared what Heaven thought of his actions. “Does it bother you?” 

Crowley shook his head and chuckled. “Nah. Couldn’t say no, after all. After the first time. Just seemed...right. I liked being you sometimes,” he admitted softly. “Doing your good deeds. It helped…”

“Balance,” Aziraphale finished. “We have indeed _gone native_ , as your coworkers stated.” He ran a thumb across Crowley’s knuckles, and then raised the hand to kiss it. 

Crowley turned bright red and spluttered.

Hmm. This was interesting… Aziraphale would examine this reaction in further detail.

“Tempt you to a spot of lunch?” Crowley croaked instead, bounding to his feet. 

Wily old serpent. Aziraphale brushed off his vest and stood up. “Temptation accomplished.” He sent a miracle out into the world. “What about the Ritz? I believe a table for two has miraculously come free.”

“Oh?” Crowley grinned at him, hands in his pockets.

And together, they left the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are at the end. It feels good to finally post this fic and have it be done. I hope the handful of you who read it enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in August last year, so if you spot any typos, errors, or weird spaces, let me know. Ao3's been kind of weird with formatting italics lately.
> 
> I tried to research ancient Rome as best I could, so any factual inaccuracies are mine. I'm not a history buff, so apologies if I got something wrong!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


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